


A Lady's Fancy

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Clothing Kink, F/M, Female Friendship, Kink Discovery, Kink Exploration, Marriage, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, newlyweds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:55:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10512342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: Upon discovering an unexpected facet of married life, Emma turns to the one person she can trust for advice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, I was supposed to be working on a prompt fill, but then s.2e.6 of Killjoys happened, and WOW, Luke Macfarlane has nice legs, one thing led to another, and then...  
> In any case, I hope it's enjoyable!

She couldn’t look Henry in the eye when he left that morning, pointedly restraining her gaze to the pile of darning in her lap.

For his part, he seemed just as determined to avoid any acknowledgement of the previous evening, which only served to drive Emma further into her crater of misery and self-revulsion.

It had seemed… so right, at the time, even unspeakably thrilling in the moment, and the contented, bone-deep exhaustion she’d felt afterward had conveniently circumvented any fretful thoughts – at least, until she had awakened that morning.

Mortification colored her cheeks an even brighter pink.

The awkwardness had been palpable immediately; any other dawn, after a night of… intimacies, she’d always been in Henry’s arms when she woke, his lips at her ear, whispering a good morning. There had been little fleeting, innocent touches as she dressed – no longer the Herculean effort of years past – and perhaps even a kiss to the bare skin of her neck as she sliced bread and brewed chicory for breakfast.

But this morning, there had been no kisses but for a single, chaste peck to her hair before he all but fled the house, not a single touch as he buried himself for several hours in new notations for an upcoming sermon, and the bed had been cold and empty when her eyes opened.

Clearly, her actions had been beyond reparation when her husband – far more knowledgeable than herself, certainly, when it fell to matters of morality – refused to even address them. It was obvious she had upset whatever illusions he still held that she possessed even a scrap of virtue; it would be plain to see that she was not in the least suited for the duties that came alongside being a minister’s wife, now that he knew her for the lewd Jezebel she must surely be. Their marriage vows would be recanted, and rightly so. She would wander the streets, ragged and starving, abandoned by family and friends whilst avoiding the staring eyes and pointing fingers that marked her out as a loose woman…

Shaking herself, Emma focused back on her needlework and found that, lost in her morbid fantasies, she had dropped no less than four stitches.

With a groan of frustration, she pulled the wooden darning egg loose and tossed each and every offending article back into the mending basket, before slumping over the little plainwood table and clutching her head in both hands.

She was being silly – obviously nothing dreadful would happen, they would merely proceed with their lives and the entire unfortunate episode would simply… never be spoken of again.

 _Ever_.

Perhaps it would be best if she ceased dwelling on it altogether – life moved on, after all. Once the mending was finished, there were the loaves to bake, and the stairs needed sweeping… and of course, ceaseless scrubbing with the last of the paraffin to try and remove that – that _stain_ on the sitting room rug.

Overwhelmed with guilt afresh, Emma rammed the heel of each palm against her eyes, as if sheer physical willpower and distraction might force the images from her mind permanently.

It was all meant to be so… harmless. There had been the announcement from Washington, the promise of greater financial remuneration in exchange for Henry’s efforts, and with that promise came an elevation in rank… The “regalia” had been dispatched to the hospital directly, and when he arrived home Emma had smiled and fallen upon the muslin wrapped clothing like a child receiving a gift on New Years Eve.

Henry’s embarrassment had been plain to see, unused to fuss and formality as he was, but she’d pleaded for him to at least shrug on the frockcoat, allow her to admire her husband in uniform…

Had she any idea of the full effect of… concupiscence, such a simple action would have upon her mind and body, she might have withdrawn the request, but it had been too late, and between one breath and the next she found her housedress and petticoats scattered about the floor, two sets of hands working frantically at the busk of her corset.

After three months of marriage Emma was not unfamiliar with the raw act of love, but she had never experienced it in quite such a… strenuous manner. Nor had she ever been completely bare in her husband’s eyes – a chemise at least, or even the addition of her drawers and corset had been permitted to defend her modesty, and… well, surely no _lady_ with any claim to respectability and correctness… sat astride a man.

On the sitting room floor.

Twice.

In retrospect, she was stunned by her own perverse boldness. But then, even more shocking had been Henry’s acquiescence to his wife’s half-coherent request that he leave on the coat.

And the boots.

A little thrill fluttered through her belly at the memory – her hands slip-sliding through the sweat on his chest, the scent of wool and new leather thick in the air, the strange, tingling delight at being so exposed while he still held the advantage of a few garments, a feeling of power with every gasp and moan as she bounced and twisted her hips, Henry’s smile whenever she would lean down for a lingering kiss, their shared laughter…

Emma caught herself before her mind could be fully swept away.

There had been nothing “shared” whatsoever – it had been her idea, her sin, and it had been she who tempted him to sin with her, just like Eve had tempted Adam.

But even so, she had always imagined that, were she ever to do something so unconscionable, she would be more aware of it when the deed was committed…

Help was needed. She must ask for advice, and find some way of digging herself from this chasm that seemed to be growing steeper by the moment. But what options were there? Mama? Hardly – she’d rather drown. She could already see Belinda’s wide-eyed, appalled expression, and it was best never to discuss matters of the heart with Alice – at least, not yet.

However, if straight answers were required – and they decidedly were – then the counsel of the ladies of her childhood would be less than forthright, not when they still often saw her as a little girl in short skirts. Someone of a more sympathetic mind would be necessary, someone harder to shock, and most importantly of all, someone who would not attempt to veil the facts…

Wincing, Emma rose slowly from the little kitchen chair – resolutely avoiding any glance towards the sitting room – and withdrew her plainest mantle and straw bonnet from the hall hooks.

After all, it was best to put up the front of a saint, when one was about to admit oneself to one’s friend as a Delilah.

 

*

 

Mary blinked.

She blinked again, and yet Emma Hopkins did not lose the rapidly darkening flush that colored her cheeks.

Blue eyes were downcast almost immediately, and Mary attempted to focus her attentions back to the more pressing matter of the Ohio cavalryman’s healing horse bite, while the young man in question managed an expression of equal parts embarrassment and keen interest.

“Intimacy?” she repeated in an undertone, while Emma glanced about nervously, as if dreading the appearance of a narrowly escaped tiger.

“Of a – of a deeply private nature…” the girl clarified at last, and Mary held back a sigh.

She ought to have expected this, really – young brides, at least in her family, did often seem to experience a sort of panic when, against all their expectations, the confines of the bedchamber never did glow with a passionate, radiating light, and angels did not sing.

A pity though that this particular complication could not have struck at a more convenient moment – the patient required at least another careful washing, and then the wound would need to be redressed… and the looming discussion did not sound like the kind that should be openly shared in male presence. However, with the lack of any other options – and Mary would not so much as fleetingly consider directing Emma towards Nurse Hastings, the Englishwoman would devour her like a vanity cake – she steeled herself and approached the matter directly.  

“If it’s a matter of… anatomical ease,” she whispered. “- Perhaps some lard, if it were applied… _liberally_ –“

“N-no –“ Emma nearly whimpered, before seating herself upon a stool at the opposite side of the bed with an air of desperation and a rustle of petticoats. The poor boy between them promptly began an intense study of the stitch-count in his bed sheets.

“It isn’t _that_ , it’s only – I fear I may be… abnormal, in some way…”

Mary’s lips tightened, as she turned back from brushing antiseptic along the broken skin.

“He doesn’t make it enjoyable?”

Emma’s brief, open-mouthed look of defensive indignation quickly answered that particular query, before she colored precisely the shade of a cooked beet once again.

“ _Of course he-!_ He’s perfectly – it’s only that I – it was completely satisfactory, but then, last night –“ she appeared to search the air above her head for words, before throwing caution to the wind it seemed, and hissing in a frantic tone;

“I didn’t mean anything by it, but – but they were tall, and black, and they showed his legs so well, and I must have gone mad to ask him if he might – ! And-! I-!” the humiliated speech finally sputtered to a halt, while Mary, at last, began to slot together the pieces of the puzzle.

Oh dear.

It was not an incident that would have troubled anyone less naïve about carnal matters, but a young woman of chastely southern upbringing, partnered to a man of God? It was a lewd disaster in the making – or a French bedroom farce, she couldn’t be sure which.

Well, it took all kinds of people to make a world, after all… but how to address the matter without mortifying the girl any further?  

 _Girl?_ she considered silently, wetting her lips. The young confederate former nurse was a woman now – that was certainly abundantly clear at the moment – and perhaps it would be wisest to treat her as such, instead of an innocent needing to be reassured with vague but sweetened euphemisms.

Mary leaned in a little closer with a conspiratorial air, halfway across the soldier’s lap, and beckoned her listener forward – shooting the boy a warning glare when he attempted to turn an attentive ear himself.

“I would occasionally refer to my husband by his… proper title, in our closer moments.” she muttered. “And at one time, he purchased a velvet ribbon and asked me to wear it around my neck… quite late at night.”

Emma’s blue eyes were growing wider by the second, and Mary hastily amended herself.

“What I mean to say is… once in a while, it’s something unexpected that provides excitement, or even a heightened sense of pleasure… and as long as no one is hurt or shows unhappiness with the arrangement… what can be the harm?”

“But it’s… _wicked…_ ”

“Perhaps – but isn’t a little wickedness enjoyable sometimes?”

For a long moment, she watched that particular thought stir in Emma’s mind, her smooth brow furrowed, until, finally, a shy, lip-bitten smile began to curl her lips.

 

*

 

It wasn’t until about ten-thirty in the evening when Mary was able to slip upstairs, carefully latching the door to the supply room behind her with the greatest discretion, seconds before a pair of firm hands closed around her waist and tugged her backwards against the cupboards.

The curls of his beard scratched pleasantly along the skin of her neck as Jed peppered her with exuberant kisses, the pair of them muffling their laughter like ill-behaved sixteen year olds, concealed in a coat closet at a party.

After some minutes of barely-innocent decadence, Jed began idly playing with an escaped strand of her hair, a pensive look on his face.

“You didn’t happen to speak with Mrs. Hopkins today, by any chance?”

Mary glanced up, tentatively considering her answer.

“Possibly. Why?”

He offered her a pained sort of smile.

“It seemed I was selected for the dubious honor of educating the good Reverend on matters of some delicacy, and frankly, I’d hoped that I wasn’t alone in – what?”

His tone quickly shifted from exasperation to bemusement as his betrothed slumped against his chest, her hands grasping his waistcoat as she became quite helpless with stifled laughter.

 

*

 

Down in the bowels of the house, the kitchen clock chimed two, and Emma murmured in contentment as she rolled luxuriously onto her belly. The bedclothes whispered against her bare skin, and with a rather giddy smile she pressed her thighs close, relishing the deep throb elicited between them.

Several now-quite-familiar fingers stroked her loose hair from her shoulders, before trailing lightly down the length of a slender arm, and her eyelids fluttered when Henry’s lips brushed the nape of her neck.

“Good morning…” he whispered gently, with that voice that sent tingles throughout her body, and before she could twist herself all-too eagerly back into his arms, Emma allowed just one of her fingertips to lightly graze the heel of a United States Issue cavalry boot, where it lay discarded quite innocently at the side of the bed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Alternately, "The One Where Everyone Actually Communicates and It All Turns Out Okay."
> 
> As a historical side note, the updated uniforms for army chaplains - after the mass promotion of 1864 - were basically an all black version of a captain's ensemble, with the addition of black or gold braid on the cuffs, gold buttons, and gold bars on the collar/shoulders to signify rank. The problem was that chaplains could then be accidentally mistaken for commanding officers, particularly on the battlefield, by either their own side, or worse, the enemy.


End file.
